


The tale of two hearts (reunited)

by TooRational



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bathing/Washing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Historical Inaccuracy, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, Kissing, M/M, Married Couple, Pete Wentz Needs a Hug, Podfic Welcome, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21977785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: Peter isfinallygoing home. He's going to see hishusband, after almost a year away.He can barely believe it.Or: the historically vague and probably completely inaccurate holiday reunion fic.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 20
Kudos: 44
Collections: Have Yourself Some Merry Little Peterick 2019





	The tale of two hearts (reunited)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wonderful **Have Yourself Some Merry Little Peterick 2019 challenge**. Thank you to everyone involved, you've made (and will make, once I start reading all these wonderful fics!) the holiday season incredibly special to me. ♥
> 
>  **Warning:** Almost no research whatsoever has gone into this. Like, everything I know about any of this stuff is either from TV, school, or random books that may or may not be historically correct. Just keep that in mind going into this fic. Also, if you want to chat with me or correct me on stuff, I'll happily listen to you! It's probably not gonna affect the fic in any way unless it's a minor detail, but I love learning new stuff, so hit me up. :)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Lies, untruths, complete fabrication, made for fun. For this one, we're in an alternate universe in which a butterfly batted its wings and voila, historically inaccurate husbands! Blessings on all these lovely people and their loved ones, may they live in happiness and health for a very, very long time. (And if you dare bother them, I'm personally going to kick the shit out of your disrespectful ass. You've been warned.)

"My Queen," Peter says as he drops to one knee.

He is profoundly grateful he has enough strength left for the act to be a graceful one, rather than the collapse he feels lurking deep inside his bone marrow. After all, the Court's jealous, cruel eyes are upon him, and they would love nothing more than to see him fail. The half-breed mutt who climbed the social ladder by marriage and then had the nerve to become useful to the Queen in errands no one was privy to, how _dare_ he hold up his head high and his spine straight?

It's preposterous. Scandalous.

Not to be borne.

Peter would revel in the outrage he feels hanging over the room if he wasn't so tired.

The fact that only the Queen's trusted advisors are currently assembled in the War Rooms makes no difference to the situation. They're worse than the rest of them, these old men set in their ways, without compassion or sympathy for anyone, their barely hidden contempt only topped by their greed for position or coin.

Peter draws on the last reserves of strength he has to infuse steel into his spine.

There will be _no_ weakness on display.

 _Peter Kingston Lewis Wentz-Stumph_ is the one who accomplished a task everyone thought foolish, a feat believed impossible, and so prepared the ground for a great victory for their Kingdom and their Queen.

He bows to one person, and one person _only_.

"Rise, Peter," the Queen says, and waits until he complies to continue. "You have served me well. You have your Queen's gratitude for all you have accomplished."

Peter sketches a deep bow and says nothing. There's nothing to say, truly.

"Go, reunite with your husband," she says with a magnanimous smile on her lovely face.

The words race through Peter like a thousand tiny bolts of lightning, and he bows once again and backs away, suddenly energized and in a hurry.

"Peter," the Queen says. The intimate way of address draws barely audible titters of reproach from the audience that nonetheless no one dares to voice aloud.

Peter turns and bows again, low enough to hide his smirk.

"We expect you both at the Yule festivities in a fortnight, of course. You're to be the guest of honor."

"Yes, my Queen," Peter says, and leaves the throne room at a brisk pace, which is about the slowest he can manage.

His husband awaits.

***

Peter's thoughts are flying far ahead of him, enough so that he barely notices the man who provides him with a horse, or the fact that his entire entourage is scrambling frantically in an attempt to follow him.

He leaves word with the stableboy to let them all know to take their time, sleep in the city if they wish, and to follow him home when they are rested. They know the way, after all, and they'd only slow him down. The journey to the estate is long, two days' worth of riding at least, but with the breakneck pace Peter's mare sets — as if she feels her rider's haste — it might be less.

 _Home_.

Peter is _finally_ going home. He's going to see his _husband_ , after almost a year away.

He can barely believe it.

It was torture, being without Patrick for so long. Peter hasn't slept without nightmares during his slumbering hours for _months_. Hell, he can barely remember the last time he slept more than a handful of hours in a row. Even now, he can feel the overwhelming weight of his own thoughts, the turbulence of them, looming and ominous in Peter's mind like they haven't since the dark days of his youth.

The trouble was, Patrick was so far away. He wasn't there to distract Peter, talk to him, gentle everything sharp and biting inside him with his sensible presence. One cannot be cross when Patrick is in sight, he is an endless source of wonder and joy for Peter. And he manages Peter's terrible moods so much better than anyone else, including Peter himself.

A flurry of snowflakes, thick and blinding, hits Peter straight in the face and drags his attention back to the road. It's colder than the Devil's asshole by now, and Peter finally admits to himself he has to stop. He can barely see his own hand waving in front of his face.

He finds an inn as he's about to fall off the horse from the cold and fatigue, just passed the half-way point of his journey. The innkeeper is kind enough to show him to a bed in a crowded, heated room for a few coins, and Peter collapses on a thin cot and loses consciousness immediately.

A handful of hours later at the crack of dawn, he's up and on his way again. At least the snow had stopped falling, though no one but him is out and about. The landscape is hushed and pristine, beautiful in a way only winter can bring.

He draws the last drop of strength from his horse and makes it to the estate just before nightfall. Their gardener gets the fright of his lifetime when Peter rides up with furious speed, dismounts, and throws the reins to him.

"Hey, what the devil do you think you're— Oh, master Peter! I am _so_ —"

"Take care of the horse," Peter shouts back as he runs towards the estate's massive doors.

He draws to a halt in the entrance, unsure of where to go first.

There's _no time_ to search this entire place, the sheer size of it is daunting. But where could Patrick _be_?

It's still early enough for him to be about, so Peter starts for the small salon on the right, Patrick's favorite because it has a pianoforte in it, when music coming faintly from the upper floors reaches him.

 _Patrick_.

Peter grins, then breaks into a run again.

The melody is furious in both pace and feeling, frantic and yearning and _angry_ , and it's echoing through the cold hallways and empty rooms, drawing Peter in as if he's being pulled by a rope. It expresses everything Peter is feeling so perfectly that it is as if Patrick has reached into Peter's guts and exposed his bloody innards to the cold winter air. Then again, Patrick has always expressed himself best through music. He _is_ music to Peter, as much as he's the prickly sunshine during wintertime, and the warmth of a rum-laced cup of tea.

And it's next to an instrument that Patrick shines the brightest. This particular piano, only for Patrick's use in their rooms, has been in Patrick's family for generations. Patrick had learned to play on it, in fact, fascinated with music since he was a child, happy to spend endless hours practicing, lost in his own little world. Peter had been fascinated himself, back in the very beginning of their marriage, at how absorbed Patrick gets while composing. But he had never felt excluded during the process; quite the opposite. Patrick would often turn to Peter and ask his opinion, or glance at him shyly when it was evident the composition was finished and he needed an audience for the whole piece. Peter would put down his own scribbles then, and pay attention to what inevitably turned out to be another masterpiece.

This melody is a new one, filled to the brim with longing, and it makes Peter's heart ache for Patrick. But he would not dare interrupt, not for the world. What's a few more moments in a year?

Patrick hadn't heard him come into the music room anyway, and Peter drinks in the sight of the dearest, most precious creature in his life.

He looks the same, his Patrick, more or less. Maybe a little paler than usual, and dressed without the care he usually shows in case a visitor comes by unexpectedly. Patrick isn't a fashion enthusiast in the way Peter is, but he prides himself on being neat and put together at all times. The slightly shabby, vividly blue robe he's wearing now seems less 'put together' and more 'comfort clothes from Peter's own wardrobe'.

Peter smiles helplessly.

Patrick finishes playing, the last notes vibrating deeply through the air, then sits up straight and sighs. It's one of those sighs that escapes from the very bottom of your soul, that _breathe_ sorrow and melancholy. He carefully closes the lid to the piano and rises, and—

Those _eyes_.

Peter had forgotten the exact shades that make them, how they change color in the light, how they widen with emotion, how _lost_ he gets inside them.

_Patrick._

" _Pete_ ," Patrick says, faint, a breath of disbelief and wonder, and there's a moment before he moves that Peter— Pete, he's _finally home_ , it's _Pete_ — in which _Pete_ has the time to think

' _my love_ '

and then

time starts up again and Patrick rushes towards him, is beside him in an instant, and Pete collapses into his husband's arms.

"What— _how_ — _you're here_."

Every muscle in Pete's body is trembling.

Patrick's hands are everywhere — on Pete's shoulders, petting down Pete's back, gripping tight and then loosening, again and again, and Pete wants to cry with relief at finally being back, _finally_ seeing his Sun in so long.

"Let me look at you, let me _look_ ," Patrick gasps out and pulls away, cradles Pete's cheeks in his hands, eyes roving all over his face.

"Don't, your clothes," Pete croaks out nonsensically, because _who cares_ about clothing in a moment such as this? But Pete knows he looks a mess; mere skin and bones, so sweaty, filthy, and tired that he is barely standing.

How would _anyone_ would want to touch him in this condition is beyond Pete.

" _Damn_ the clothes, you're _back_." Patrick snaps, and Pete has forgotten about this, too, how snappy Patrick can get when he's upset.

Who would think Pete would miss being berated by Patrick?

" _Patrick_ ," Pete says, unable to come up with anything else, and rests his forehead against Patrick's.

" _Hi_ ," Patrick says, tears thickening his voice.

It brings tears to Pete's eyes as well.

" _Hello_ , my love. I have _missed you so_ ," Patrick continues, and presses their lips together.

Pete kisses back greedily, _deeply_ , like a man starved presented with a feast, taking and taking and _taking_ , and Patrick meets him toe to toe in his hunger. He always has; Patrick has been his equal in all things from the very beginning.

The kiss spirals out of control in seconds, storm of too-strong emotions suppressed and held under tight control for too long.

Patrick is the one that pulls away first, gasping, "No, no, you have to eat, you're exhausted, Pete, _Pete_ —" into Pete's mouth.

Patrick is talking gibberish, and Pete would have happily ignored him but his inward-turned stomach is growling loud enough for it to be embarrassing.

"Very well," Pete says reluctantly.

Patrick sends for a tray from the kitchens and arranges for a bath in short order, and they retreat to the sofa together, wrapped in a large blanket and one another's arms like they've gotten used to doing during the previous long winters.

Unlike the serene atmosphere of winters past, however, the air is brimming with sweet tension.

"Your hair," Patrick says in awe, touching the braids at Pete's temple cautiously again and again, unable to keep his hands to himself. "It's so long now."

Pete pulls back a little and nods, unable to formulate the words past his closed throat.

He finally manages: "I'll— I'll cut it if— "

"No, _no,_ I like it, it looks beautiful," Patrick hurries to reassure him. "Does it hurt, braided so tight?"

"No."

Patrick smiles at him. "I'm glad."

Pete smiles back helplessly.

"Do you want to keep them for the bath?" Patrick asks, pressing tiny kisses along Pete's hairline.

Pete had met a dark-skinned warrior who knew many things about hair care on his travels, and the tight braids all along his scalp were both a practical choice and a good disguise. He suspects there's an element of his heritage that has piqued his interest so, as muddled as that theme is in his head, and as shrouded in secrecy as his family keeps the matter. It was certainly food for thought during some of his more sleepless nights in the past.

But he knows how to do them himself now, will certainly revisit the style sometime in the future. He might teach Patrick how to help him with it, too; he's always had nimble fingers.

"No." Pete says. "It's time for a change. Help me unbraid them?"

"Of course," Patrick says.

Pete cannot make himself turn his back on Patrick, not yet. It feels like his entire reality will disappear if he takes his eyes off his husband. Therefore he tells Patrick to start with the right side of his head, just so he can look at Patrick from the corner of his eye a little longer.

"Use my wide tooth comb," Pete says.

Patrick hums an affirmative note and sets to work.

It goes slow, Patrick being more careful than needed, but Pete enjoys the quiet. There's only the sound of their breathing, the crackling of the fire, and the brush of the comb audible in the room. The cutest little frown of concentration sits on Patrick's face as he works, the same one he wears when he's composing a particularly tricky piece of music, or when he can't make sense of the numbers Pete gets while keeping the estate's ledgers in order.

Pete loves that frown, every single line of it.

Their dinner arrives right about when Patrick's done with Pete's hair, along with the message that their bath is almost ready. They eat quickly and efficiently, the simple meal consisting of a thick vegetable broth, bread, cheese, and fruit.

Once they've finished, Patrick takes Pete's hand and leads them to the bathing chamber.

Their bath is half-full, steaming, and large enough to fit them both, which was one of the rare luxuries Pete had insisted on when they married. Patrick was sceptical in the beginning, thought it a waste of space and money, but has since discovered the many joys and advantages such a purchase provides. Pete is _still_ amazed his newly-wed husband was unaware of what an alluring picture he would present, cheeks flushed and body nude, lounging in the bath in Pete's arms. He'd since taken every chance to convince Patrick of how enticing he finds him, and has managed to greatly improve the state of their cleanliness.

Pete may yet make a hedonist out of his husband.

Said husband has turned to the task of taking Pete's clothes off while he was reminiscing, attentively and with the ease born of practice, one layer at a time. It feels like stripping armor, and the weight of responsibility, and all those days they've been apart. Pete is going to be as light as a feather once he finishes, moored to the ground only by Patrick's hands on him.

Patrick, who is caressing every inch of skin he exposes, tracing every scar he finds with gentle fingers.

If Pete were a book, Patrick would know every letter within his covers by heart.

"You've lost weight," Patrick says, voice laced with worry as he runs his warm palms down the concave curve of Pete's stomach.

"I'll recover," Pete says, face tucked into Patrick's neck.

Here, he can smell only Patrick, is surrounded only by Patrick; the ink- and skin- and soap-scent of him.

"I will try my best to eat better from now on, I promise."

Patrick nods and kisses Pete's bare shoulder, a plan most likely already formed in his head to keep Pete adequately fed, a list of meals for the foreseeable future at the ready.

Patrick steps back to take off his own clothes and moves a touch too fast, elbow snapping out sideways while he struggles out of his overshirt. It's not even close to hurting either of them but Pete still flinches, recoils instinctively.

Patrick either doesn't notice, or chooses not to comment on the reaction, and Pete is grateful for it.

They settle face to face in the hot water, Pete gladly dealing with the uncomfortable bend to his legs to be able to see Patrick. It makes Patrick insisting on washing Pete's hair slightly awkward but they make do; Pete leans forward as much as possible, and Patrick takes great care to keep soap from running into Pete's eyes.

The heat, the quiet, and Patrick's hands on him are a powerfully soothing combination. Pete dozes for a while, content in the water. His eyes remain open, however, dopily focused on the up-close details of his Patrick: the apple of his cheek, his collarbone, his way his eyelashes curve, the biteable tip of his ear, his strong forearm, his lips…

His pink, inviting lips; so sweet, so pretty.

So worried.

Pete does nothing but worry his husband.

How unforgivably horrid of him.

As if hearing his thoughts, Patrick whispers, ' _I've missed you so much, my love_ ' into Pete's ear, a secret, confession, and a vow.

Pete shudders, moves into the gentle slide of the washcloth down his neck and across his shoulders like a frost-bitten man moves closer to the fire.

"I've missed you so terribly, words cannot describe," Pete whispers back as he leans further into Patrick.

They stay that way until Patrick is done with Pete's back, then they separate a few inches so that Patrick can wash Pete's chest.

"Who cut you?" Patrick asks, tracing the old scar on Pete's side. Well, old to Pete; new to Patrick.

"An enemy. I was careless, it led to being seen. Not a good trait in a spy."

"Do they live still?" Patrick asks, in a tone Pete can't interpret.

He hesitates to answer because it's not a nice story, and it doesn't paint him in a good light, either. But he's always been honest with Patrick, even back when he thought it would cost him Patrick's hand in marriage. He is not about to start lying to him now.

"No," Pete says quietly as he pulls away.

He tells himself Patrick won't care, that he'll understand, that he'll surely _see_ how insurmountable the situation was, yet he cannot help but take a moment to steady himself before he looks up.

"No. I didn't want to end his life but he left me no choice. He would not stop, he simply… It was an accident. I swear to you, Patrick, it was an accident. He fell on my dagger."

The horrifying moment Pete realized what had happened, when the dagger squelched and the man jerked to a stop, is one he will never forget for as long as he lives.

Patrick takes Pete's hands in his own, squeezes them until he has Pete's undivided attention, and says, "Listen carefully, Peter. I am sorry that you carry this burden, that you will carry it for the rest of your life. Taking a life is not, _should_ not be easy. But I am no better than you, my love, because I think of losing you to an enemy's dagger, and all I can feel is relief that you've won, that you returned to me, whole and unharmed. 'Good', my heart says. 'He is back with you. He fought, and survived, and found his way back to you. Whatever— _whatever_ was done with that goal in mind, it was justified.'"

"You truly mean that?" Pete asks, barely a whisper of a sound.

The man's death has haunted him for weeks now, made him almost lose the grip on his sanity more than once.

He kept thinking about the man, if he had family, children, a lover of his own. If anyone would miss him, mourn for him, or be kind enough to bury him.

Pete wondered if he deserved to live after the sin he'd committed, and if not, if he would lay eyes on Patrick's beloved face again or if Lady Justice would take him before he could.

"Yes," Patrick says with conviction Pete cannot comprehend.

"But he was a _person_. Like you, or me, or any of our friends. He had hopes and dreams, he—" Pete says desperately.

"And you had your orders. What you were doing, what you achieved, spared our kingdom _a war_. That's thousands of lives saved, possibly more."

Pete shakes his head but Patrick refuses to relent.

" _Pete_. It is a truly terrible thing, what's happened, but it has happened. You must make your peace with it. And if you wish, if you allow me to, I will carry this burden _with_ you. I will carry _you_ when your strength gives out. _Let me help you_ ," Patrick pleads, asks, commands, and _begs_ in one breath, and Pete _crumples_.

He reaches out to Patrick blindly, like a child, and Patrick pulls Pete into his lap, uncaring of the water sloshing over the edges of the bath. Pete clings to Patrick, face buried in his neck, and lets out the grief that he'd been suppressing for months, sobs ripping out of his throat like they're skin being ripped from a live man's flesh, and equally as painful.

His stomach aches with the violence of it, and he's shaking like a leaf in a storm, hard enough to _hurt_ , but Patrick holds true and steady. He doesn't complain about the death grip Pete has on him either, simply rocks them both in a soothing, slow rhythm.

The breakdown is as horrible as it is cleansing.

Pete's tears dry out after some time and he pulls back, splashing some of the bath water on his face.

"Lovely homecoming, isn't it?" Pete says wryly, "Tears instead of kisses, a husband barely recognizable from the one that left a year ago. More trouble than I'm worth, aren't I?"

"Hey," Patrick snaps, and the sharp tone makes Pete look up in surprise. "Do _not_. Do you think I don't know you? I married you with my eyes wide open, Pete. I know the _heart_ of you, and it is _good_ , and _pure_. What you lived through does _not_ make you damaged property. What you _look like_ is _not_ the only reason I love you; it is but a small part of it. Don't do us both the disservice of thinking such things."

And when Pete nods dumbly, Patrick pulls him into a kiss that befuddles his mind, leaves him once again a shaking mess.

"I love every part of you," Patrick whispers into Pete's mouth when they separate, and Pete nods.

"And I, you," he vows.

As far as declarations go it is woefully inadequate but it's all he has.

The bath water is cooling rapidly so Patrick moves on to washing Pete's thighs, his knobby knees, the stretch of skin from his calves to the tops of his feet.

"I used to know every inch of your body better than my own," Patrick says when he finds yet another scar. "But now…"

"I am still me, my love," Pete says, kissing the downturned corner of Patrick's mouth. "And we shall have all the time in the world to learn our differences once more, for I am not leaving your side again."

"If the Queen demands it—"

"No. This was a task one is expected to undertake but once in their lifetime. No one can _possibly_ ask for more of us. What right would they have to do so?"

"She is a queen, my love. Her duty is always to her land and subjects first, everything else second. But the point is entirely moot, because if she _does_ ask again I shall be going with you."

Pete feels panic rise in him, filling his mouth with a bitter taste.

"No, _Patrick_ —"

Patrick cups Pete's face in wet, slippery hands and says: "Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz-Stumph, I _will not be parted from you again_. Do you understand me?"

_Oh._

Pete is learning so much about his husband tonight. It's driving his already bewitched heart to fall even deeper in love with him.

Pete swallows and nods.

They get out of the bath, dry as quickly as possible, and then Patrick bundles Pete off to bed. He stops by the fireplace to add more logs onto the fire.

When he climbs into bed, Pete rolls into his embrace; head on Patrick's chest, Patrick's heartbeat steady under his ear. It's a little faster than usual, but Pete's heart is beating hard as well, and jumping at flickering shadows.

Pete tries closing his eyes but the dark is unpleasant, eyelids drawing fiery nightmares with them as they slide shut.

He opens his eyes again.

"Have you scandalised the ton by doing work around the estate while I was gone?" Pete asks, partly to distract them both and partly because he is curious about what he'd missed.

"Yes," Patrick answers promptly, drawing a startled laugh out of Pete. "I've been composing, and keeping the books in order, and _talking_ to people — oh, there was _so much_ talking, it was incredibly exhausting, Pete. I'll never understand how you manage that, and make it look so easy! I've been in a temper most foul the _entire time_ you were gone, I promise you. You can take the numbers and this talking business back at your earliest convenience, thank you, for I do not enjoy them at all."

"I shall relieve you of all unwanted tasks post haste, dear husband, I assure you. And I'm convinced you were perfectly pleasant to our staff, do not try and trick me. You are simply incapable of being unkind to them."

Patrick huffs. "Well, fine, yes, that's true enough. But I haven't smiled at anyone in months, either. My face was a thunderous sight to behold."

As comically exaggerated as it might be, the mere thought of that makes Pete's heart ache. Patrick's forehead creased; his lovely mouth set into a grim line, when it was made for smiles of all kinds _._

It's not to be borne.

He sits up in bed, cups Patrick's cheeks and asks, "Smile, for me."

And Patrick _does_ , with such love and affection that Pete wonders what he did to deserve this husband, this life.

Pete kisses one corner of Patrick's mouth, then the other, and whispers, "Thank you."

"There is nothing to thank me for. Whatever you ask of me, it is yours. I thought you knew that."

"I am so sorry, I've forgotten," Pete says, lips trembling with sudden emotion, "I seem to have forgotten so many things, so far away from you. Forgive me? Try not to hold it against me, my love. I'll remember it again, all of it, I swear to you."

Patrick reaches out and pulls Pete back to him, enveloping him into a bone-cracking hug.

"I will remind you, gladly, of all you've forgotten. For as long as you need it."

Pete nods into Patrick's chest, grateful, eyes burning.

What a treasure his Patrick is. There is no one luckier than Pete in the entire kingdom.

"Sleep, my love," Patrick says, and with his husband's familiar heartbeat acting as a lullaby, Pete does.

***

The halls are decked with elaborate seasonal decorations, the court is dressed in extravagantly expensive finery, the Queen looks every inch the majestic ruler she is, and the tables are laden with food arranged into works of art.

The end of the year Yule celebration is a feast for all senses so bewitching that, even hours into the revelry, one does not know which direction to turn their gaze upon first.

Pete, though, only has eyes for his husband.

They are both dressed in their finest attire, simple yet elegant, appropriate for the occasion and in carefully chosen complementary colors. Pete's hair is unbraided still, but he put it in a high bun, an open defiance of all the court customs. There was a second of hesitation as he did it, but when he met Patrick's eyes in the mirror he saw nothing but the usual warmth. A touch of leftover possessiveness mixed in, perhaps, and a hint of reluctance to let Pete out of his sight, but no recrimination whatsoever. Pete would have done his hair traditionally if Patrick had hated the sight of it. His little rebellions aren't worth it if Patrick gets hurt or feels uncomfortable.

Well, more uncomfortable than Patrick usually does at a public function.

But as always, Patrick hasn't faltered. He'd pulled Pete close, kissed him and declared: "I like it. May they all choke on their outrage."

Pete smiles helplessly, as he's been unable to stop himself from doing for days now.

 _This_ is the man he married. His tiny revolutionary in drab clothing, the one who can put everyone in their place with the mildest of quips and an infinitely bland tone of voice.

No one ever sees him coming.

"You can go and talk to your adoring public, you know. I won't mind," Patrick says.

Only manners keep Pete from snorting derisively.

It's fascinating, the constant fluctuation of the Court's opinion of Pete. Currently he is a hero, so everyone fawns over him. When he first married Patrick he was a vulgar commoner, unworthy of rubbing elbows with their help, let alone the ton. And tomorrow? Who knows; it's anyone's guess.

It _is_ lucky that Pete doesn't put much stock into anyone's opinion but that of his husband, his Queen, and a select few of his closest friends. He'd most certainly have had several crises of identity so far, otherwise.

"Why would I go, when I have everything I could ever want right beside me?"

Patrick smiles at him wryly. "You do know that we are married? There's no need to waste your charm on me, dear husband."

"But there's always need, my love. However else shall I convince you to stay by my side until we are as old and wrinkled as my grandfather's unmentionables?"

Patrick looks at him fondly, nose crinkled but laughter in his voice, and says, "My, what a way with words you have, dearest; you should have been a poet. But worry not. I've long since found that, if you simply keep being _you_ , it is quite enough for me to stay with you for as long as we both shall live."

And how, _how_ is Pete supposed to cope with a statement like that? How is he to continue drawing breath when Patrick says such _devastating_ things as plainly as if he's describing the weather outside, like it's an _obvious_ statement, an everyday thing.

It might have been too early to leave their bedroom and go back to society after all, because wild horses couldn't keep Pete from kissing his husband on the lips at that very moment.

Somewhere on the edges of his hearing, Pete can hear the scandalized gasps of the ladies and the intrigued murmurs of the younger crowd, but he simply does not care.

Patrick stiffens in surprise at first, but he catches on quickly, kissing back sweet and soft and chaste. It is true that Patrick abhors attention, but he is also more than a little stubborn about Pete and the way the Court treats him. He will take any chance for a proverbial two-fingered salute in their direction. Pete knows the whole lot of those deadly vipers could perish the very next day, and Patrick would not care one bit.

"I love you so very, _very_ much, my dearest Patrick," Pete says softly into Patrick's ear once he's back to a proper distance, as if it's a secret.

It is not.

It never was, not even a little.

Patrick _knows_.

"I love you, too. Now, stop trying to induce apoplectic fits in every fragile old lady within eyesight and let us retire for the night. I don't know if you've noticed but there's a delightfully large bath in our rooms."

Patrick lifts a significant eyebrow at Pete and Pete mirrors it back, barely containing the bubble of laughter rising in his chest.

"Indeed? Well then, lead the way, my lord. I wish to inspect this most unusual occurrence myself."

They depart swiftly, arm in arm, giggling like children as soon as they exit the Great Hall.

It's so strange, how life turns out.

Pete used to be possessed by the idea of fame and fortune, riches and recognition, and now that he finally has it all, he's sneaking out to spend time with his husband. The fortune makes his life easier but does not entice him anymore; the recognition he could do less with, though he is proud of his accomplishments; and the husband who was unplanned for and completely unforeseen is the light of his days and the passion of his nights, everything he needed and never knew to even search for.

What better way to spend Yule than just like this:

In his husband's arms.

**End**

***

**Post Script**

The bath turns out to be quite spectacular.

Pete may or may not be planning on making a similar purchase at the earliest opportunity.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tahmblrz.](https://toorational.tumblr.com/) Do come and talk to me. :)


End file.
